


life without care

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Coney Island, F/M, Fluff, it's so fluffy I could die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 20:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14363145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: One spring day, Lane and Joan decide to play hooky.





	life without care

After a hellish, unseasonably long winter, Tuesday the 26th finally brought the cloudless spring morning everyone had been waiting to see for months. Even Joan, who loved New York during the holidays, and all the trappings of winter, had gotten tired of the cold by now. Being trapped indoors for so long had made her feel a little stir crazy.

Which was probably why, by the time she exited her cab, and walked towards the Time Life entrance, she noticed Lane Pryce standing next to one of the benches, motionless, squinting up into the dawn sky with a distant, hopeful smile on his face.

When he saw her, Lane ducked his head on a blush in lieu of his usual hello. “Sorry. Just – it’s finally warm.”

“I know.” She adjusted her satchel on her shoulder with a smile. “Hard to believe.”

“Honestly.” The slight pause, no more than a second, made her eyes flick back to his. “All things considered, the thaw’s making me want to do something – rather odd.”

Well, that could mean anything. Joan wasn’t sure what his mischievous tone of voice was supposed to convey; Lane was rarely this playful – with her, anyway. “How odd?”

His mouth quirked upwards. “Skive off.”

It took a second to translate the idiom. “You mean, play hooky?”

The amused quirk widened to a broad grin.

Joan let out a surprised breath. He was right. That was odd. If she had any remaining sense, she’d pretend not to see a thing, and tell him to enjoy his day off.

“So, where would you go?”

“Not really sure. Lots of places I haven’t been yet.”

“Sometimes I go to Coney Island,” Joan offered, meaning it as a joke. She hadn’t actually been to Coney Island since she was twenty-two, or twenty-five. Something like that. But Lane’s face lit up at the quip like she’d just mentioned Manhattan was within driving distance of the Star Trek television studios.

“Really? How is that? Did you like it?”

In that moment, he wasn’t the dry financier who spent his days lecturing everyone about budgets and bookkeeping. He looked every inch a little boy who just wanted to spend a day eating hot dogs on the pier and riding the Tilt-A-Whirl until he threw up. God, she could almost picture it now. Even with his briefcase and his plain beige raincoat, he’d probably end up dragging some colorful prize or a string of balloons all over the beach, just because the ten-cent claw machine or the strength test or the basketball hoops looked too good to miss.

“You should do it,” she told him instead, and tapped his elbow with her pocketbook as if the gesture would get him to move. “I think you’d have a good time.”

“Wouldn’t want to join in, hm?”

An excuse was on the tip of her tongue.  _ Oh, I can’t, I’ve got a meeting. I’m supposed to finish some paperwork. Didn’t bring my walking shoes.  _ But for some reason, she couldn't make any of the words leave her throat. After a couple of seconds, Joan realized she didn’t even want an excuse. She just – wanted to play hooky. With Lane. At Coney Island. 

What a weird day.

“Yes.” He looked as surprised as she felt. “Actually, I could use a day off. If that’s all right.”

“Think the company can allow you that much,” Lane said slyly, and they both laughed.

Before he could say anything else, Joan glanced left, saw Pete Campbell striding down the sidewalk about a hundred yards from the main entrance, like a little weasel ambling out of the woods. Lane must have seen him, too, because he grabbed for her hand with a rushed  _ quickly!  _ and they piled into the nearest taxi as fast as possible.

By the time the door closed, and they were pulling away from the building, Joan was giggling with one gloved hand pressed to her mouth.

“Sorry.” Lane was giggling, too, red-faced. “Only…”

“No, I know.” She couldn’t stop. “Too close.”

Once they’d finally calmed down, a few minutes later, Lane broke the contented silence with a question.

“Is it all right to stop at mine before we go?”

Dimly, she realized he had given the cabbie his address earlier.

“Oh, to change or something? Sure.”

“Yeah.” The big grin was back on his face as he gestured to his briefcase. “Erm. Think it’d be a sad sight otherwise.”

“The businessman vs. the funnel cakes.”

He blinked, clearly puzzled. “What’s a funnel cake?”

“Oh, my god.” If he hadn’t eaten one yet, that was the first thing she’d make him get once they arrived. And she’d probably have a small piece, just to be game. “You have to try it. Like a deep fried waffle covered in sugar and chocolate.”

They pulled up to Lane’s building after a relatively uneventful drive; he offered her his hand again, and Joan took it by reflex. It wasn’t until they’d said hello to the doorman and were zipping up on the elevator that her common sense kicked back in. Jesus Christ. She couldn’t just show up at his apartment without so much as a by your leave. Mrs. Pryce would probably try to bludgeon her to death with a skillet.

The apprehension on her face must have been obvious, because as soon as they stepped out of the elevator and the doors closed behind the operator, Lane turned to her.

“I’m – living alone now, so you needn’t worry about running into anyone.”

“Oh.” Joan could feel her heartbeat thudding in her temples. “Well, I did wonder.”

“No, of course.” He produced his keys; unlocked the door. “Sorry. My – well, Becca’s been in England nearly a year. And I would have said something except I, erm, haven’t really been spreading it around.”

When they stepped inside, and she saw the lack of feminine touches–the way the remaining decor seemed jumbled together to make up for someone else’s absence–Joan thought she finally saw why he was so wary about confiding this fact to the world. Didn’t seem like it was his choice, on first impression, anyway.

“I can understand why you wouldn’t want to advertise it.”

He hung up his coat. “Yes. Well. It was terribly sudden – for a breakup, anyway.”

“So you’re not just separated?”

Lane scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Joan suddenly wanted to ease his mind for making himself so vulnerable. Telling her about all this, at home, hoping she wouldn’t spread it all over the office. Although, given the way his shoulders suddenly relaxed, maybe he was relieved that she’d actually asked the question. 

“Divorcing. I’ve, er, got paperwork waiting for signatures, just there.”

_ Oh. _

“Sorry again.” He gave her an apologetic look. “Best not bring down our day before it’s even started. I’ll just – have a quick change, and then we’ll be off.”

“No, I’ll change, too,” Joan offered, and glanced around. “Where’s your guest bath?”

It wasn’t until she was finished, and stepped out of the bathroom, that she realized two important details. One: they had barely discussed why her waistline had ballooned to epic proportions, although everyone in the office, Lane included, was aware that she was pregnant. Two: she was relatively certain he had never seen her wearing pants instead of a dress.

Well. No use delaying the inevitable.

She had already fixed her face and put her coat back on when a door opened further down the hallway, and Lane came back into the living room, wearing grey chinos, a bright blue cable-knit sweater, and a pair of red-toned oxfords. It was so surprising to see him in casual wear that Joan couldn’t help commenting.

“You look really nice,” she said, and meant it sincerely.

His expression brightened so much it was like she’d just told him he won the lottery. “Oh, well, thank you. I like your trousers, as well. Very chic.”

Her red colorblock smock and black capris weren’t much to look at by comparison to her formal work clothes, but at least they were making semi-fashionable maternity wear these days. Most of the mothers Joan knew hadn’t even been that lucky.

“Clearly, I was prepared.”

By the time they got to the boardwalk, most of the lingering awkwardness had dissipated. And since they had resolved not to talk about work - even shook hands on it - Joan wasted no time with questions or inane conversation.

“We should go to Astroland first.”

She expected Lane to protest, or demand to know why, or insist that he had somewhere better in mind.

“Lead the way,” was all he said.

Once they got within eyesight of the main entrance, and Joan pointed out the giant blue and white rocketship from the boardwalk, he let out a wordless  _ oh  _ of surprise, and didn’t stop beaming, even after they’d bought their tickets from the vibrant red-and-yellow booth and entered the park.

Lane was reading almost every sign they came across, including the non-directional ones. “I did not know this was the Home of the World Famous Cyclone.”

“Well, if you want to ride that, you’d better get in line now,” Joan advised.

“Not set on it, really. What do you want to do?”

_ Eat,  _ she thought immediately, but pointed at the Wonder Wheel instead. “I could go for a few carnival rides.”

“Agreed. Though perhaps not the fastest ones.” Lane had already unfurled the map he’d grabbed back at the ticket counter, and was studying it very intently. “Oh, all right. They’ve an observatory deck to the stars. Plenty of children’s things. Carousel, spelled with two ehls. Coasters, obviously – ah!” He met Joan’s eyes; his mouth had that mysterious twitch to it again. “Something called  _ Dante’s Inferno. _ ”

“I don’t think that’s based on the divine comedy,” she warned.

“No, Joan, we’ve just got to. Please.”

“All right.” She let out a sigh. “But if I get scared, I’m going to blame you.”

As they were walking up to the ride, Lane gestured up at the devilish ghoul hanging over a sad collection of the damned. 

“Is it me, or does this poor devil look a bit like Lee Garner, Junior?”

From that point on, neither of them could take the ride seriously. Lane didn’t try to make her scream with fright in the dark, or startle her out of her seat, just kept whispering a constant stream of dry jokes into her ear. And if Joan kept giggling at all of them, or pointing out funny stuff in return – frankly, the dominatrix running the stretching rack  _ did  _ remind her a little of of Ida Blankenship – then what did it matter?

They rode the swings, the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Giant Octopus, and went underwater on the new Neptune Diving Bells before Joan decided it was time for food. Lane came back from the restroom and found her mid-snack, wolfing down a soft pretzel as big as her head.

“Wha?” She shielded her mouth, voice a little muffled. “I go’ hungry.”

He was cackling already. “And you didn’t even get me one. How dare you.”

“Y’can have th’ next one,” Joan told him in between bites, and pretended to push him off with one hand. “This’s mine.”

“No. I’m going to go back under the sea and toss it to Flapper and – Flipper. Whatever the evil one’s name was.”

Joan turned her face to the left so he didn’t see her struggling not to choke on a huge glob of half-chewed bread. Determined to keep her composure, she swallowed her bite, and tried to breathe through the impulse to laugh. “Flopper.”

“Well, then, more’s the pity. Terrible name for a porpoise.”

Discreetly, she swiped any remaining crumbs from her mouth with her thumb and forefinger before straightening up to face him. “We could get a funnel cake instead.”

“But then what would the aquatic mammals eat?” Lane looped his arm through hers like they were about to skip down the Yellow Brick Road. And honestly, they might as well have. Every time Joan thought she had her bearings again, he said or did something else that took her by surprise. It was like getting to know a completely different person. He was so different outside of the office and away from their usual responsibilities; lighter, more confident. “Anyway, I’d better go on the Cyclone first. Otherwise the queue may get too long.”

He was in line for almost twenty minutes. Joan took a restroom break, fixed her face again, and settled in with a stick of cotton candy in order to people watch while he was gone, enjoying the cool breeze and the sun on her face after such a miserable winter. It didn’t matter that the park wasn’t as kept up as it used to be, or that a lot of people clearly weren’t here for the scenery or the tourist opportunities. She raised an eyebrow as she spotted a wild-haired old man in an oversized raincoat loitering by one of the arcade games. Looked like he was either a flasher or about to pee on the sidewalk. Either way, probably drunk.

“Oof.” A loud, heavy sigh to her left made Joan turn. Lane was back, staggering a little and looking slightly green around the gills. “Probably shouldn’t have done that.”

Her eyes widened. “Should we find you a trash can?”

“‘S not that dire.” He blotted his face with a handkerchief. As he put it away, the drunk old man from before stumbled back into partial view, standing behind one of the rides in a way that was far too stilted to be casual. “Good lord, is that chap humping a lamp post?”

They bolted before they could find out, and ended up right on the water, ambling down the shore in the surf. After about twenty minutes of walking in contented silence, Joan finally spoke up.

“We should probably sit down for a while.” She surveyed the ocean with a little bit of longing. Too bad she didn’t have a bathing suit that would fit. Or a place to take off her stockings. “My feet are starting to hurt.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Let’s.”

Lane gave her his jacket and helped her sit down on the tallest nearby sand dune; although they’d walked farther than they meant to down Surf Avenue, it was nice to be away from the thickest part of the crowds. Down here, it was almost like they were on a real vacation together.

_ Where the hell did that thought come from? When and why would she ever go on a real vacation with Lane - just the two of them, alone? _

“Back in a tic,” he told her after she was situated. “Just going to fetch a couple of things.”

“Like what, driftwood?”

A few minutes later, he came back with a sunburned teenager on his heels who looked like a lifeguard; between them, they carried a beach umbrella and two unwieldy lounge chairs.

“Thanks very much,” Lane said once his zit-faced friend deposited them on the ground. The kid didn’t stick around to even say thank you, just grabbed the single bill from Lane’s outstretched hand and left without a word.

Joan was too busy trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. “Did you start a side business when I wasn’t looking?”

Lane snorted out a laugh as he staked the beach umbrella into the sand about a foot away, and fumbled with the lock as he adjusted its position, then began to unfold one chair. “Obviously. Figured if advertising didn’t work, perhaps holiday rentals might.”

That explained the kid.

“Here.” And now Lane was gesturing toward her, clearly asking if she wanted to get up. “Would you like to stretch out?”

_ Don’t go to any trouble,  _ she wanted to say, but he’d already set up one chair under the inviting shade of the umbrella, and she did want to take some pressure off her lower back, and by the time she was reclining in the soft plastic chair with her bare feet in the sun and Lane’s coat draped over her shoulders and torso, she was more relaxed than she’d been in months. The loud rush of water as the tide flowed in and out was soothing on a bone-deep level.

“I just love the ocean,” Joan told him with a sigh, and closed her eyes.

She woke up to a gentle hand on her shoulder, some time later, and blinked up at the person next to her only to see a large paper bowl extended toward her.

“What is that?” she asked, and sat up, swiping at her eyes. “Um. How long was I–”

“Couple of hours, I think?” Lane sat down in the chair next to hers. He had rolled up his trouser legs and was standing barefoot in the sand. “Not really sure. Had a little doze, myself, took in the scenery, and then thought it might be nice to eat something.”

Joan eyed the paper bowl he was holding with renewed interest. “Is that ice cream?”

“Chocolate mint. Took a bit of a wild guess on yours.”

Sold. “Gimme.”

“What’s yours?” she asked after a few minutes. Half of her ice cream had disappeared.

“Ah. It’s one scoop of peach, one of vanilla.”

“Let me try it.” She was already reaching toward his bowl with her spoon, scooping out an enormous bite. “Is it like cobbler?”

Lane just laughed, loud and hearty, like he didn’t know what to make of her enthusiasm. “Good lord. You’re insatiable.”

“I’m eight months pregnant.” Joan made a happy noise as a sweet milky peach flavor washed over her tastebuds. “Oh, god, that’s really good.”

“We’ll go to Nathan’s next.” He was still chuckling. “Unless you had other plans for dinner.”

She didn’t.

They finished their ice cream, then sat in the beach chairs talking for almost an hour. After that, they finally went to Nathan’s. Lane spilled chili on his sweater almost immediately after getting his chili dog; Joan teased him relentlessly about it until, less than two minutes later, she dropped a huge glob of mustard and onions down her right arm, and he had a chance to exact revenge. 

After the hot dog incident, they went back to the arcade.

“Just so you know,” Lane called out as they were buckling into two separate bumper cars, next to a huge group of rowdy teenagers, “I’m going to win this one.”

She raised a sharp eyebrow as she put the final adjustment on her seat belt. It cinched terribly, but there was no way she was letting him get bragging rights. 

“Not on your life.”

The air horn sounded; Joan yanked the wheel left and sped straight toward his car, despite Lane’s squeal of protest as he tried to back away. 

Bump.

“Steady on!” He was holding his glasses on his face with one hand, already so breathless from laughing he couldn’t turn the car around. “Can’t believe you just – no, now, get back here!”

Joan was already backing up so she could ram him again. Above them, the electrical line zinged across the ceiling as her car moved. 

“Too slow.” And she stuck her tongue out at him.

Lane was in the middle of turning his car when he took the second bump. “Dear god, you witch, ‘m not even turned around yet!”

“No head-on collisions,” the bored-looking attendant warned, over the din of squealing cars.

“There! Coming for you now.” Lane had finally gotten his car oriented in the right direction, as a couple of kids rocketed past, screaming in glee. “Mark my words!”

“Can’t hit me, old man,” Joan crowed, doing a sort of victory shimmy in her seat. Even though the baby dug into her bladder in this position, the outraged expression on Lane’s face at being called  _ old man _ made it worthwhile. “I’ll score another point.”

“Hey, down in front! No head-on collisions!”

Meeting Lane’s eyes as their cars zoomed straight towards each other, Joan had already decided she wasn’t going to turn. If they were locked in a battle of wills, even over something as silly as bumper cars, then she was obviously going to win, and that was final.

Forty seconds later, all the teenagers were jeering and snickering into their hands as she and Lane were escorted off the ride by a frustrated-looking carnie in a dirty t-shirt. His visible tattoos rippled all the way up his arms and neck.

“Well, I don’t see why they had to boot us off the damn thing,” Lane grumbled as they walked away from the ride’s entrance. He had his coat slung over one arm. “Perfectly harmless. No one was hurt.”

Joan just smirked at him. “Guess we set a bad example.”

He grinned in response. Joan could almost see the wheels turning in his head, certain they were thinking the same thing.

_ Since when do you and I ever get the chance to let our hair down? Set bad examples, or do anything stupid in public? Since when did we start having playfights and teasing each other? Are we actually friends and not just work friends? Why is that so hard to believe? _

Lane nudged her in the ribs with an elbow, breaking her out of her reverie. “Do you want to share a funnel cake now?”

They went back to the boardwalk to eat it, under the twinkling glow of multicolored lights coming off the Wonder Wheel.

“You were right.” Lane snagged another big end piece and popped it into his mouth. “This is bloody amazing. ‘M gonna eat one all the time now.”

“Fairground food always tastes good.” Huddled under his black coat, now draped over her shoulders, Joan thought about how warm and inviting the park looked under the beautiful lights. As rundown as the place was, for a second, she felt a rush of powerful nostalgia. Like she was home; even though she’d never lived in Brooklyn, and had never wanted to. “I used to love going to the state fair as a girl.”

“Hm. Is it anything like this?”

“Sort of, just bigger. At least in Virginia. They’d have it once a year at some big county location. But there were more agricultural events, too: auctions, contests, presentations. A lot of cook-offs.”

“No rodeo, then?” he asked. “Bull riding and lassos and all the rest? I really was hoping.”

“There were. I just didn’t go to any of it. Wanted to ride the Pirate Ship, or get cotton candy, or make out in the parking lot with some cute farm boy.”

“Course you did.” That beaming grin was back on Lane’s face; when he met Joan’s eyes, she felt like they were in their own little world. “Probably broke all their hearts, didn't you.”

Joan gave him a glare that could have torn through steel, even though she was smiling too much to pull off seeming upset. “I did not.”

“Rubbish. Absolute heartbreaker, you were. I can only imagine.”

A fine dusting of powdered sugar speckled one corner of his upper lip. Joan mimed touching her fingers to her mouth in an attempt to get him to fix it, but he just tilted his head at her in a quizzical way, clearly not understanding. She had to swallow when he met her eyes. Her throat felt dry as dust. For some reason, she couldn’t explain why she wanted him so much in this moment, only that she did, powerfully, and it seemed like the world would stop if she didn’t  _ do something about it. _

Before he could speak, Joan brought her hand up to his face, and gently brushed the pad of one thumb over his lips to dust off the powdered sugar. And once she’d done that, she couldn’t stop touching him; she cupped his face in one hand, leaned forward, and gave him a fairly passionate kiss, considering they were balancing a plate of fried dough and a baby bump between them.

When she pulled away, they stared at each other, unblinking, for a moment or two.

Eventually, Lane cleared his throat, probably in lieu of saying the first thing that jumped into his brain; she quickly leaned away, out of his personal space. Her head was swimming.

“I’m sorry.” A hot blush scalded up into her cheeks; she pulled her hand back to her swollen stomach, where it hovered anxiously around her navel. Underneath her palm, the baby was stirring. “Um. I don’t know why I did that. It just–”

Happened.

And now she was thinking about what could happen. If she wasn’t eight months pregnant, or if she wasn’t married to Greg, what would she want to do tonight? Take Lane back to the beach and straddle him on one of those rickety plastic chairs? Make love in the surf like they were in a Deborah Kerr movie? Kiss him right here on the boardwalk until her knees wobbled and her heart raced? Go back to his apartment just to fall asleep on the sofa with bad TV, tangled in each other’s arms?

“Oh.” Her eyes were filling; quickly, she blinked back the tears before they had a chance to fall. “Oh, Lane, I really am sorry.”

He put the funnel cake aside and placed one hand over hers, shaking his head no. “Joan, don’t. It’s–it’s really all right. Erm. These things happen. Or so I’ve been told.”

She nodded her head yes, mute, and tried to smile at him. He wasn’t upset, or angry, or accusing her of misreading signals. They were just going to let it drop. That was good.

God, how could she have done something so stupid?

“Don’t think I’ve ever kissed a girl at an amusement park,” Lane said after another long silence, clearing his throat again. He was very careful not to look at her as he said this, and seemed to be studying her left shoulder very closely. “So you’re the first.”

Joan tried to breathe through the thudding of her heart in her chest. “Guess there aren’t many theme parks in England.”

Lane startled visibly, like he just realized he was still touching her, and pulled his hand away from hers like he’d been burned. “What? Oh, well, no, there aren’t. Not really.”

He glanced behind him, clearly looking for the funnel cake leftovers, and when he didn’t spy the paper plate, they both looked out toward the dimly-lit beach. Maybe ten yards away from the boardwalk, a small lump of dough lay face-down in the sand, with a skiff of sugar and chocolate surrounding it.

“Damn it.” Lane looked visibly disappointed. A shadow had fallen across the middle of his face. “Blew right away.”

 

_ epilogue _

 

Wheeling to face the window, and looking over all the New York trinkets decorating his windowsill, Lane had resolved to spend the rest of the morning daydreaming when someone knocked at the door. Seconds later, Ken Cosgrove popped in, folder in hand.

“Thought I’d drop my expense report off myself instead of asking Allison to do it.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

He didn’t have much enthusiasm to muster up for expense reports at the best of times, but today, the task seemed particularly dolorous.

Ken dropped the form into Lane’s inbox, but did not leave right away, peering instead at the items on the windowsill. “That always been here?”

Lane turned; saw the black cast-iron and ceramic trivet proudly displayed next to his miniature Statue of Liberty. Even the picture of the wharf was enough to make him smile.

“Oh, no. Just went a few weeks ago, actually – with a friend. Grand day out, and all that.”

“Neat.” Ken made an approving face. “You guys have fun?”

“Yes, we did, thanks.” The image of Joan’s face under soft twinkling lights popped into his mind again. Gooseflesh rippled up his arms as he remembered the sweet, brief kiss they had shared that night. So unexpected and lovely it had completely stolen his breath. He still hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About her. Wondering how she was doing with the new baby, and if he could - or should - phone her to ask how things were going. “We really did.”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Been meaning to write this for a thousand years, and finally got bitten by the plot bunny after listening to the Tony Bennett/Gaga version of ["The Lady Is A Tramp"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPAmDULCVrU) on the way home a couple of nights ago. Yay!
> 
> Researching old Coney Island was [INSANELY](http://www.bridgeandtunnelclub.com/bigmap/brooklyn/coneyisland/amusementpark/index.htm) [fun](http://www.coneyislandhistory.org/ask-mr-coney/dantes-inferno), to the point where I basically never wanted them to leave. 
> 
> Also also: why are these two so damn cute. JUST MAKE OUT ALREADY.


End file.
